


I Came Home

by a_single_drop_of_ink



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood - Fandom
Genre: A Very Potter Musical easter egg, ANGST!!!, Bruce and Jason bonding and comforting moment, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by "Father and Son" by Cat Stevens, bruce loves his children, but also fluff?, good dad bruce - Freeform, he did some stuff to jason in RHatO 25 that he seriously regrets, jason came home, jason comes back, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:20:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25166092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_single_drop_of_ink/pseuds/a_single_drop_of_ink
Summary: Bruce Wayne had many regrets in life, had done many things that left him broken hearted. But nothing was worse than what he did to his own son, Jason Todd.He had taken a bright and adoring son and hurt him worse than anyone else. Worse than Joker had, and Joker had beaten him nearly to death, then blew him up.The Joker had tortured Jason, but Bruce had done far worse.He knew Jason loved him, adored him really, but the instant Bruce had gotten scared, he had driven a wicked blade into Jason’s back and left him to die.He would have died, a second time, had Roy not been there.Bruce could admit it, he would have killed Jason if he’d had even a second longer.And it was his deepest regret.He regretted it even more than he regretted being unable to save his parents.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 71





	I Came Home

Jason’s boots hit the ground just in time for it to lurch beneath them, sending him careening into the nearby alley wall as he fought to keep his balance. 

Damn it all. He hated getting sick. Since the Lazarus Pit came with lovely perks such as improved healing, he never got sick anymore. It took an illness that would bring down an elephant to affect him even slightly. And this particular illness was really kicking him. At least he could rest easy knowing it would be gone by morning. 

He yanked his helmet off and dragged a gloved hand over his running nose, sniffling up the last strands of snot that didn't get wiped off. That same hand, the other side now, rubbed his aching forehead, the brain behind it somehow feeling both three sizes too small and three sizes too big. 

This brain found it hard to hold onto any particular thought, preferring to let them dance through his mind, allowing them to disappear before he really had the chance to think them. 

So when something struck the brick wall mere inches from his face, hard enough to sink shards of pottery into his flesh, his mind gave it a rating of ‘meh’ on the importance meter and continued to ponder the differences between waffles and pancakes. It wasn't until a hand grabbed his collar and yanked him away from the wall that his unfocused eyes managed to look vaguely in the direction of his assailant. 

Her loud neon outfit yanked his fuzzy mind into some semblance of focus, allowing him to hear her words as she spoke.

“Well well well,” she began, tapping a slender crowbar against her shoulder with every word. “Isn’t this a surprise. Imagine running into Jason Todd in Gotham of all places, and while he seems to be impossibly sick? I thought coming back to life made him immune to illnesses. Must be my lucky day.”

“Nuh uh, you are by far the sicker one,” Jason managed to mumble, swinging a wild punch towards the girl.

She danced easily out of his reach. “Ain’t you a riot today.” She stepped forward and the crowbar snaked forward to bite into his arm.

He dodged clumsily away, a second too late.

The metal gouged out a chunk of his skin, splattering blood across the alley walls, covering the grime and filth with a fresh crimson paint job. 

Fast as a whip, the crowbar drew back and then slammed down over him again, this time aimed for his head. 

In an instant, she was replaced by a grinning clown, blood smeared over his lips in a facsimile of a smile. 

The crowbar smashed into the top of his head, sending pain rocketing down his spine and causing his jaw to slam shut, cracking several teeth and nearly biting off the tip of his tongue. 

His already unfocused vision darkened even further as the dim warehouse swam before his eyes, the Joker bobbing in and out of view like a rubber ducky tossed by waves. 

His eyes slid shut, the pain already making his head feel faint, almost as if he weren’t really there.

Bruce. He fought against the growing tide of fatigue, forcing his eyes to flutter back open. Bruce was coming for him. All he had to do was last a little longer, then Bruce would burst through that warehouse door and save him. 

He smiled despite himself at that thought. If there was anything he could rely on Bats for, it was keeping him safe. They may have fought, and Bruce may have no longer trusted him, but Bruce would never abandon him.

The thought comforted him as he let his eyes fall shut and his mind go blank. 

Suddenly the girl, Punchline, was back, the crowbar still descending towards his head. A wave of panic washed over him and he threw himself to the side, narrowly dodging the weapon as it crashed into the alley wall, exactly where his head had been mere moments before. Chunks of brick and clouds of dust sprayed from the sizable crack in the wall, framing the villainess as she turned and began to stalk towards him.

He scrambled away on all fours, his desperation to escape having sent him to the floor. He pulled himself upright using the nearby wall, the part of it that was still slick with his own blood, and ran.

He didn’t care that this was the perfect opportunity to finally be rid of Punchline and deprive the Joker of his sidekick, he was in no shape to be fighting her.

At that point, every thought in his head was focused on running away, on escaping the girl and her wicked crowbar.

Her laugh, high-pitched and deranged, followed him as he weaved through streets and alleys, dodging moving cars and buildings. He ran straight for a nearby fence, threw himself on top of it, and sprinted along it till he reached the wall of a building. He scaled the building in less than a minute, leaping from handhold to handhold with the sort of arrogance born from years of practice. 

He pulled himself onto the roof and was off again, leaping from rooftop to rooftop without a care for his own safety.

His brain was still heavy and dull, and it didn’t have the energy or focus to spare on keeping him alive. Instead, he found himself having difficulty keeping an eye on his surroundings at all. 

His view flashed between the rooftops of Gotham and the inside of a dim warehouse, a bright red timer counting down as he lay inches from it, unable to move.

He wasn’t restrained or secured in any way, but the Joker must have broken every bone in his body, then set it on fire, so that all of his limbs rebelled against him, sending pain licking across his body whenever he tried to force them to move. 

The counter ticked steadily down as he jumped over another gap and landed hard on the next building, sending bits of stone and broken roof spraying the area in front of him. 

He had no idea where his legs were taking him, just that every thought that wasn’t preoccupied by that haunting red timer was focused on getting him as far away from there as possible. He would deal with where he ended up after he was safe. 

The timer clicked down to five seconds and Jason could feel the hope vanish. He had been beaten within an inch of his life, his face was puffy and blood streamed from a dozen cuts and bruises. His bones were shattered, there was bound to be internal bleeding, and he could barely draw breath. Hope had been the only thing keeping him fighting, keeping him from just letting go and succumbing to the darkness that tantalized him with its sweet release of nothingness. 

Hope that Bruce would come save him.

But apparently their fight was bigger than he thought, apparently Bruce truly didn’t trust him anymore.

And apparently, Bruce abandoned anyone he didn’t trust to die.

The timer ticked even further down and Jason shut his eyes. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry, though. More than anything, he just wanted to apologize. He wanted to apologize for being so hasty, for not listening, for blowing up at Bruce like he had. He wanted to apologize for being a far worse son than his father had ever deserved. And of all the arbitrary things he could’ve been sorry for in that moment, most of all he wanted to apologize for trying to steal the Batmobile’s tires. He was sorry that he ever thought that could be a good target, that Bruce had caught him and that he had ended up in his care.  
He was sorry that he had even met Bruce, because if he hadn’t, then Bruce never would have had to fight with one of the few people he trusted, and lose all of that trust in a way that must have hurt. He knew it hurt him, so he couldn’t even imagine how Bruce had felt.

Because despite everything that had happened, despite the fight, despite their disagreements, despite Felipe, he still loved his father. 

He loved his father just as much as he had loved his mother—well, stepmother.

A weight fell off of his chest as he realized this. It took him to be inches from death to finally admit it, but he did. He really truly loved his Bruce. His father. 

Just as he completed the thought, his eyelids flared red and the world erupted into hellfire. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bruce knocked on the bedroom door before opening it, giving his son a second of warning before he entered as was his habit. 

Dick stood at the foot of his bed, arms reaching up as his torso leaned to the side, farther than Bruce thought a torso should have been able to lean, but by now he was used to Dick’s crazy flexibility. 

“Good night, Dick. Sleep well,” he said to the boy, as he did every night.

Dick nodded, then straightened. “G’night, B. Don’t let the bedbats bite.” He snickered to himself as he leaned over to the other side. 

Bruce sighed and left the room without another word. Still, he couldn’t get annoyed at that awful joke, in fact, despite his best efforts, he found himself smiling slightly at it. It made that little flame in his heart flicker to life, warming his chest when he heard stuff like that from any of his sons.

He shut the door behind him and headed for the flight of stairs that led to the very top of the house. 

He reached the upper floor and headed straight for the nearest closed door. He knocked once more and then opened it, but this time there was no one inside, just a lit computer and a monster pile of dirty coffee mugs. 

Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom, however, he spotted Tim curled up in the corner nursing another mug, a book clutched in his empty hand as he flipped through it impossibly fast. Bruce could never quite fathom just how fast Tim read, and every time he saw him speeding through books like that, he was convinced he must be skimming it and retaining nothing, but he knew better. No matter how tiny the detail was, anytime he tried to question Tim about what he just read, he had the answer right there and ready. 

He was a terrifying creature when it came to anything related to information or knowledge. Or coffee. He was a monster when it came to coffee.

“Good night, Tim. Enjoy your book,” he said softly, turning around when he saw the wave of acknowledgement that Tim sent his way. He knew better than to wish Tim a good night's sleep. He wasn’t entirely certain the goblin had slept once in his entire life. He smiled softly at the thought and left the room, once more shutting the door gently behind him, that warm feeling in his chest swelling even further.

This time he headed all the way down the stairs and then into the Batcave beneath the manor. It had been a long day and Damian had been particularly grouchy, so Bruce knew he would be holed up in some corner away from people, seeking comfort from his animals.

Indeed, as he entered the Batcave, he spotted his smallest son curled up in the corner, arms wrapped around Titus as he sprawled over him. 

“Damian?” Bruce called. Damian didn’t stir, not even to give his signature glare at being disturbed. Bruce had to smile at that. It was rare that Damian let down his guard enough to sleep in such an open area, and so to see so made that warmth grow ten times bigger. 

He carefully crossed over to where the boy was sleeping and held out his hand for Titus to inspect it. Once the dog was satisfied, he slid his arms beneath the limp form of his son and carefully carried him out of the Batcave and into his room. 

The door was wide open, so he just stepped inside, shifting Damian so he could be held with one arm. With his free hand, he pulled the covers back, then gently set his son down. He tugged off his shoes, then drew the covers up to Damian’s chin, tucking them around his shoulders to make sure he was warm.

He stood there for just a second, marveling at how gentle Damian looked when he was asleep. There was no scowl on his brow, no sneer on his lips. Just a soft smile as his mind played off in some dreamland. 

He kissed Damian’s forehead, whispered goodnight, and left the room, shutting the door as quietly as possible as he left. 

He held that warm love for his sons in his chest as he headed next to the kitchen, where Alfred was cleaning the coffee machine in the rare moment that Tim wasn’t down there to protect it from him. 

Bruce chuckled as he went about his business in the kitchen. First, he pulled a pot from the cupboard and set it on the stove. Then he went into the pantry and grabbed a heavy bar of chocolate, a tin of baking cocoa powder, some vanilla extract, a stick of cinnamon, some nutmeg and some cloves. He carried everything to the countertop beside the stove, nearly dropping half the spices as he tried to carry it all at once, then went into the fridge to grab some heavy cream and milk.

Following the recipe Alfred had shown him years ago when he first told him he wanted to do this for his son, he made a damn good batch of hot chocolate. 

After the drink was finished, he ladled it into a pair of mugs and set them on a tray. Then he went back into the pantry and grabbed a tin of cookies that sat at the very top labeled “Bruce’s”. These were from the batch that he had made last holiday, and he had just enough to last him this holiday. He set the pair of cookies he took from the tin onto a set of small plates that sat on the tray, then replaced the tin, rinsed out the pot he had made the cocoa in, and began heading upstairs, tray in hand. 

Steam rose from the mugs of cocoa, wisps of white gently curling into the air as he walked up the flight of stairs, careful not to jostle them. His eyes were glued to the floor in front of him, half watching to make sure he didn’t fall, half trying to distract himself from his destination. 

The top of the stairs came quickly and Bruce wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. 

He turned left and walked down the lengthy hallway to the room that sat at the very end, just behind a closed door. He set the tray on the floor, opened the door, then picked the tray back up and entered. 

The room was dark and quiet, just as musty and empty as it had been the last time he entered. 

As he walked towards the bed to set down the tray, he made a mental note to open its windows the next day to let it air out. 

But as he drew near to the bed, he froze, the tray nearly tossed to the floor as he spotted the form lying in the bed. 

He slid one foot forward, and when the form didn’t move, he figured it was asleep. Every sense on high alert, Bruce silently crossed over to the bedside table and set the tray down. As it hit the tabletop, the mugs clinked softly, and the figure moved. Bruce froze, hand already on the gun he kept in his pocket at all times.

But the form simply rolled over in bed, letting out a slight wheeze as it moved. Bruce let out a soft breath of relief and stepped forward, closer to the bed to get a good look at the intruder. 

But as he moved closer, the moon’s light dipped around the heavy curtains that hung over the window, illuminating the boy’s face and the tuft of white hair that sat above it. 

Had Bruce still been holding the tray, he would have dropped it as a wave of shock slammed into him, nearly sending him to his knees. 

Jason was here, in the manor, on one of the most painful times of the year for them both. 

His chest heaved for air that wasn't there and his fingers twitched by his sides, itching to do something but unwilling to do anything for fear of doing something wrong.

He had to be careful, he couldn’t afford to scare his son away, not after everything he did. He had to make sure he stayed. There was so much he needed to say. 

Bruce stood there, frozen, simply watching in pure disbelief as Jason slept.

The moonlight drifted further down Jason’s body, revealing the gash on his arm that still oozed blood over the sheets.

That was enough to jolt Bruce into action, spurring him to leave the room just long enough to grab the nearest medical kit that sat in the bathroom just down the hall. 

The walk took maybe a minute, but as he approached Jason’s room once more, he couldn’t stop the fear that sat heavy and hard in his chest. Fear that that had just been a dream, that the boy he had hurt so badly really hadn’t finally trusted him long enough to come home. 

But as he opened the door and stepped inside, he couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face as he saw his son still lying on that bed.

He hummed softly to himself as he sat on the bed and pulled out a few cotton balls, tweezers, and disinfectant. The song he hummed was an odd one, clearly a lullaby, but not one anyone could recognize. Well, anyone but him and Jason.  
It was a simple tune, nothing more than a few notes strung together, but it was their song. One of the early nights after Jason had come to the manor, the boy had been unable to sleep, too busy pacing around his room, nearly chewing his lip clean off as he worried it between his teeth. 

He had been too scared to sleep, terrified that everything had just been a dream and that if he fell asleep he would wake up back on the streets. Bruce had grabbed his arm and pulled him into a hug, whispering over and over again that this was real, that he was really there, and that he would never be abandoned. 

Jason had shoved him away, saying something about how that was exactly what a dream would say. Bruce grabbed him again, this time pulling the tiny boy into his lap, wrapping his arms securely around him and telling him to list everything he heard. The boy complied, listing things like Bruce’s heartbeat, the sound of his breathing, the hum of the Batcomputer. 

Bruce nodded, then asked him to list everything he saw. Jason told him all he could see was Bruce’s chest, as his face was pressed to it, but after a chuckle and then some urging, he turned and scanned the room. He could see the walls of the Batcave, the Batcomputer, the chair beneath them, Bruce. 

Bruce then asked if he could read the clock in the corner of the Batcomputer’s screen. Jason nodded, read the time—bloody early in the morning—and then Bruce pinched the boy.  
He shouted in outrage and squirmed in his arms, trying to get away. Bruce apologized, running a hand through the boy’s messy hair to soothe him. 

He told him that if this were a dream, he would never have been able to hear Bruce’s heart, never been able to read the clock on the Batcomputer, and never been able to feel that pinch. 

Jason scowled at him, his angry face far too adorable for Bruce to feel even slightly threatened, and told him that it was just a freakishly detailed dream. One of those lucid ones.

Bruce shook his head lightly and simply began to softly hum. 

The tune was nothing special, the notes were very pitchy, and Jason glared at him something fierce. 

Still, he kept it up and was rewarded by the boy slowly relaxing in his arms. He began gently running his hand over Jason’s head, and the boy turned around to bury his face in his chest. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as he continued to hum and stroke and the boy drifted off to sleep on his lap. 

Since that night, that little song had become Jason’s biggest comfort. Anytime he was hurting or scared, all Bruce had to do was pull him into a hug and begin to softly hum. Then, like a switch had been flicked, his son would instantly relax, knowing that it meant he was safe, right then and there with Bruce by his side no matter what. 

It was that tune that he hummed as he dipped the cotton into the disinfectant and gently dabbed at the gash on his arm.

The instant he touched Jason’s arm, the boy flinched, eyes flying open to stare at him. Or more accurately, near him. His eyes were bright and feverish, pupils far too dilated to focus on him. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not, but his son’s mind was way too far away to comprehend that he was face to face with Bruce.

Slowly, Jason relaxed as he heard the song and the stinging of the disinfectant faded into a dull tingle. His eyes still stared unfocused at Bruce’s face.

He finished cleaning the wound and pulled out some surgical thread and a needle to stitch it shut. 

As he did so, he stopped his humming and began to speak, careful to keep his voice even and low, as if he were trying to soothe a frightened animal. 

"I am so sorry for everything I did,” he began. “I should've helped you heal and taken you in where you could be safe, not pushed you away the moment I got scared. I was scared, little wing.” He paused to swallow hard, shoving that lump in his throat as far away as possible as he threaded the needle through the top of Jason’s wound. “You were just like I was when I was younger, and it scared me to see that same rage and hurt reflected in the eyes of someone I cared so much about. I am sorry I hurt you even more. And I am sorry I cannot change the past. That the past changed you.” He pulled the thread tight, pinching the top of the gash closed before pushing the needle through again, just a bit lower. “ You know, you are like lightning, hot and angry at everyone and everything. Its okay you know. You can slow down, take your time, stop to think once in a while. You don't need to push yourself so hard.” He finished the stitch and began the next one. “Its okay to take days, weeks, even months off. You have your whole life to accomplish your dreams and wishes.” He had to stop and rub his eyes, wiping away the moisture that blurred his vision, obscuring the stitches he was working on sewing. “I wish you could see that, little wing. I wish that you would take a step back and think about what you really want. I don't think it would have anything to do with the Joker if you did." 

He finished the last stitch, tied off the end of the thread, then snipped off the excess and placed the needle with the dirty tweezers and bloody cotton balls. Then he grabbed some gauze and wrapped the arm in the sterile white cloth. He set the rest of the pack aside once the bandage was secure and handed Jason his mug of cocoa. He wasn’t sure if the boy could even recognize what it was in his delirious state, but to his relief he drew the mug to his lips and began robotically sipping it.

Bruce sipped his cocoa as well before beginning to speak once more. “Everyday I came up here. Every night for months I spent in this very room, cookies, a peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwich and hot cocoa waiting on a tray for you.” He took another sip. “I was so scared you would come home one night, find the lights were out and there was no one there and then you would leave. For good. So I waited. And waited. For months. I all but stopped being Batman, I pushed away Alfred, Dick, Tim, even Damian. And you never came. Still, every holiday, every anniversary of both your death and exile, and every single one of your birthdays, I would come up here and spend the night sitting at the foot of your bed with a platter of cookies and hot cocoa, waiting for you to come home. And now you are home, and there is so much I need to tell you.” He took another sip, trying to clear whatever it was that was in his throat making him sound so choked up. He wasn’t crying, dammit. He wasn’t! 

The bed jolted beneath him and Bruce looked up from his mug to see Jason’s eyes staring at him, clear as day and wide with terror.

He wordlessly shoved Bruce off the bed, flinging his arms forward with all the strength his ill body could muster. The cocoa went flying across the covers and though the push wasn’t very hard, Bruce let himself fall away, watching as Jason shrunk back to the very head of the bed, pressing himself hard against it, trying to get as far away from Bruce as he could. He grabbed his head but kept his eyes locked onto Bruce, watching for any movement that could pose a danger to him.

He really was like a frightened animal, and it made that warm feeling in his chest vanish like a blown-out birthday candle, consumed instantly by the yawning void of grief that sat heavy and ever-present in Bruce’s heart. 

He had done this. 

He had taken a bright and adoring son and hurt him worse than anyone else. Worse than Joker had, and Joker had beaten him nearly to death, then blew him up.

The Joker had tortured Jason, but Bruce had done far worse.

He knew Jason loved him, adored him really, but the instant Bruce had gotten scared, he had driven a wicked blade into Jason’s back and left him to die.

He would have died, a second time, had Roy not been there. 

Bruce could admit it, he would have killed Jason if he’d had even a second longer.

And it was his deepest regret. 

He regretted it even more than he regretted being unable to save his parents. He regretted it more than when he drove Dick away, forced him out of his life. 

He had come to terms with the first one, found a channel for his anger and slowly accepted that there was nothing he could have done.

And as for the second one, at least he hadn’t tried to kill Dick when he left.

The sheer terror in Jason’s eyes hurt Bruce to his core. He had expected anger and rage, Jason’s usual lines of defense when he got hurt. 

He had never seen Jason’s eyes so scared. 

Not when he was being tortured by the Joker, not when he was attacked by Bruce. 

He couldn’t bear to see that expression in Jason’s eyes, and he was not ashamed to admit that he had to look away. 

He wanted to explain everything, wanted to tell Jason how sorry he was, wanted to tell him that he still loved him, no matter what he had done. He wanted to throw himself on the floor and beg Jason to give him one more chance.  
But he knew Jason would never listen. The only reason why he got through his speech earlier was because Jason had been too out of it to know he was speaking. 

The instant he began to talk, he knew Jason would shut him out, refuse to hear his words, turn away and run off. 

In his heart, he recognized himself just after his parents were killed. That same hysteric terror, that same refusal to listen to anyone. 

He knew what he had to do, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Bruce stood slowly, careful to keep his hands open and within view, careful to keep himself small and non-threatening. As soon as he moved Jason jumped and tensed even further, hand flying down to rest on the gun holster that sat within easy reach. 

Bruce swallowed hard and backed away. But before he could reach the door and leave, letting Jason go like he knew he needed, Jason slumped over, his eyes glazing over once more. 

He knew there was a way to make Jason feel safe again, and it meant he had to go away, to let Jason grow and go as he had been, let Jason be who he was going to be. But for that moment, while Jason was still unaware enough to not be scared, Bruce selfishly decided to stay for just a few minutes longer. 

He sits back down on the bed beside Jason. “You are still young and there is so much more for you to learn. Just relax, take it easy, find a boy, settle down, maybe even get married. You will still be here tomorrow, and maybe then you can think about what you want in life and go for it.” He pauses to run a hand over Jason’s hair. “Just look at me, I am old, I've made so many mistakes and have so many regrets, but I am happy where I am. And I want you to be happy where you end up." He pulled his hand away from Jason to rub it over his eyes. “That’s all I have ever wanted for you.” He sighed. “I know I have to go away. And I will. I just want you to know that I am so proud of you, little wing. You have become an amazing young man, and I hope that despite everything I did to you, that you can find happiness one day.”

He pulled his hand from his eyes to see Jason staring up at him, eyes clear of the fever, but wide with that fear again. 

It seemed the Lazarus Pit’s effects had finally kicked in, as the boy stood and vanished out the window before Bruce could say a word.

He let himself fall forward onto the bed, dropping his now empty mug onto the sheets beside him as he brought his arms forward to keep his face clear of the blood and cocoa soaked covers. 

He spent the night on that bed, only leaving when the moonlight streaming through the windows was replaced by yellow sunlight.

If the now dried blood and chocolate on the sheets were joined by the white powder left by dried tears, Alfred mentioned nothing as he cleaned them. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bruce spent the day by himself, holed up in his own room, grateful to Alfred who brought him food for every meal just to make sure he ate. 

The night came back around and Bruce went around the house telling each of his children good night. 

Dick was stretching like he had the night before, but this time Tim was busy typing furiously away at the computer when he stopped by and Damian was drilling with his sword. 

Still he wished them all a good night and headed back to his room to spend the night listlessly tossing about in his bed rather than sleeping.

But as he stopped by the bathroom just outside Jason’s room, he heard a faint grunt of exertion and immediately he rushed inside, ready to deal with whatever intruder had just entered. 

He threw the door open, then stopped cold in his tracks. 

Standing there, just inside the window, fear in his eyes and a guarded expression on his face, was Jason. 

Bruce’s jaw fell open and he stared helplessly at his son. The moment dragged on, an impromptu staring contest locking the pair in place.

Finally, Jason stepped forward and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. He ran his hand over the fresh sheets that Alfred had replaced that morning.

Bruce snapped his mouth shut and took one faltering step forward, freezing when Jason tensed up.

But immediately after, Jason relaxed again and waved Bruce forward, patting the bed beside him.

Soundlessly Bruce sat on the bed beside his son.

He could hardly believe his eyes. It was unbelievable enough that Jason had arrived the night before, but that was easily blamed on the fever and delirium. Now Jason had no excuse. He had come of his own volition. Bruce’s heart swelled with cautious hope. Maybe, this meant Jason was ready to give him another chance. Maybe this meant he could finally have his son again.

He opened his arms, careful to keep the movement slow and obvious. 

Jason stared at him, a thousand thoughts swirling behind those eyes, and several tense heartbeats passed. 

Then a weak smile fluttered over Jason’s face and he leaned forward to wrap his own arms around Bruce’s sides. They were gentle, unsure, ready to remove if anything happened and Bruce made sure to keep his own embrace just as easy to escape.

But he couldn’t stop the smile that spread over his face.

His son was here, in his arms, for the first time in years.

“You came back,” Bruce whispered into Jason’s hair.

Jason’s reply was so soft he nearly missed it. “I came home.”


End file.
